Page 7 of Fire Me Up
“Okay, Team Honda,” I said, turning back to the second group. “First step is checking the oil level.”
I demonstrated how to locate the oil inspection window, explaining the importance of the engine temperature when checking. Lucas took notes like this was a doctoral seminar, while Lena looked cheerfully interested. Gael watched me intently, his focus so complete it made my skin heat.
“Now, Gael,” I said, deliberately keeping my voice casual, “could you grab the funnel from that bottom drawer? The red one.”
He dropped to a crouch, grimacing slightly as the movement tugged his bad shoulder, then kept digging. His jeans pulled tight across his ass, and fuck, it was criminal how good he looked. I dragged my eyes away before anyone noticed my blatant ogling.
“Shit, this toolbox is chaotic,” he said, digging around.
“I have a system. It’s just not visible to the naked eye.”
“This one?” He held up a black funnel.
“No, the red one. Should be in the back.” I gestured vaguely, sending him searching again.
Lucas raised an eyebrow at me, and I ignored him completely. My brother was too perceptive for his own good.
“Got it!” Gael emerged triumphant, holding the funnel like a trophy.
“Great. Now we’re going to start an oil change. First step: draining the oil.” I pointed to the pans I’d placed under the bike. “This is messy, so you’ll want a pan or a bucket to catch the oil.” I pointed to the drain plug and held out a tool. “Lucas, want to try unscrewing that?”
Lucas approached the task as if he was disarming a bomb, his movements painfully slow and hesitant. Gael, meanwhile, kept peppering me with questions—smart ones, actually—but he couldn’t stand still, constantly shifting his weight from foot to foot, rolling his injured shoulder, or reaching out to touch different parts of the bike.
Bacon, not to be outdone, knocked over an empty oil pan with a resounding clang that made everyone jump. The cat looked around innocently, then began grooming himself as if he hadn’t just scared the shit out of us.
Glaring at the cat, I checked in with the guys working on the Harley, showed them how to deal with a tricky oil plug, then returned to the Honda. Lucas had finally managed to loosen the drain plug, his face lighting up in a way that made me smile.
As the class progressed, a pattern emerged. Lucas over-thought everything. His technical knowledge was impressive, but his practical skills were nonexistent. Gael dove in with enthusiasm but zero patience, constantly trying to skip steps or rush ahead.
And he rubbed his shoulder whenever he thought no one was looking, giving me the strangest urge to take care of him.
Chapter 3
Gael
By the end of Wednesday’s class, I was obsessed. Not with motorcycles, but with my teacher.
I couldn’t stop staring at Dylan’s hands as he adjusted something inside the carburetor. His fingers moved with such precision and confidence, like he could take apart the entire motorcycle and put it back together blindfolded.
My brain kept jumping between trying to follow his instructions and noticing how his purple-tipped hair fell across his forehead when he leaned forward, or how his t-shirt rode up just enough to expose a sliver of skin when he reached for a tool. I’d been hopelessly distracted all day, retaining approximately zero information about motorcycle maintenance while developing an encyclopedic knowledge of Dylan Kim’s every movement.
“And that’s how you clean the carburetor jets,” Dylan said, holding up a tiny metal piece between his thumb and forefinger. “Questions before we wrap up for today?”
I blinked, realizing I’d missed his entire explanation. Again. This was becoming a pattern. Dylan would show us something, and I’d get so caught up watching his hands or his face or the way he moved that I’d completely space out on the actual content.
Lucas raised his hand like the overachiever he was. “What if the jets are corroded beyond cleaning?”
Dylan launched into an explanation about replacement parts while I scanned the workbench for Bacon. He’d been curled up in a patch of sunlight last I checked, but the spot was now empty. Shit. Not again.
I casually glanced around the shop, trying not to panic or interrupt Dylan’s lesson. No sign of my cat. Double shit.
Lena caught my eye from across the room and pointed discreetly toward the far corner, where I spotted an orange tail disappearing behind a stack of tires. I gave her a grateful nod and slowly edged away from the group, trying to be stealthy.As I walked, I rolled and stretched my shoulder, trying to shake the persistent ache from my injury. I’d spent the morning doing physical therapy before class, and the therapist had pushed me harder than ever. My fault for telling her I was eager to get back to work.
“Okay, that’s it for today,” Dylan announced as I was mid-creep. “Tomorrow we’ll move on to brake maintenance, which is crucial for
A loud crash from the back of the shop cut him off. Every head turned toward the sound, then toward me, as I froze mid-step.
“Sorry,” I said, heat crawling up my neck. “That would be Bacon.”
